Uriel's Aristocrats
by sun lover213
Summary: Necromancy: the art of raising the dead. Warning-the dead may be angry for being disturbed.
1. Chapter 1

Uriel's Aristocrats

Disclaimer: I definitely don't own Mortal Instruments or any of Cassandra Clare's interesting characters.

He is skipping class in the library which is empty except for the ancient librarian and that strange kid who knew all the answers in history class. His aunt would probably hang him by his thumbs if she found out he was ditching a _mandatory _class. Luckily, he was not going to be seeing her until the holidays so the worst she could do was send a threatening letter warning him not to skip Runes. He has a legitimate reason for despising the course; he keeps seeing his father convulsing violently, covered in Marks that were _bleeding_ and the normally composed man screaming for it to just end, to kill him…

Try to make him attend the stupid class that encouraged an addiction that slowly kills you one way or another. He walks over to the section of the library that was written in Ancient Greek which would be a lot easier to read than English which had to be the most difficult language to understand. Who invented homophones anyway? He is browsing the section when he felt someone coming up behind him. He whirls around, an excuse for the librarian at his lips but it is just that weird kid-Starkweather?

"You read Ancient Greek?"Starkweather asks skeptically. He almost snorts but he hears his mother's voice reprimanding him on _proper behavior_ and restrains himself.

"I **am** Greek." And they call you the smart one? He turns back to the bookshelf, trying to ignore the other boy. He is not at this school to make friends especially not with kids with short-_small_ family trees. His efforts are wasted when Starkweather continues to talk to him.

"Aren't you in my history class?"

"Vαι," he says. Starkweather looks bewildered. "I mean, yes, I am." Stupid English.

"Hodge Starkweather." The other boy offers his hand. He stares at the hand like it has some kind of infectious disease.

"Robert," he says, proud he refrains from the sneering this new Anglican name. "Robert Lightwood." Starkweather widens his eyes comically and drops his hand from the air.

"Oh," Starkweather sounds awkward. "Nice meeting you." The boy scurries off and he turns back to Sophocles' _Electra_.


	2. Chapter 2:Alexander the Great

**Disclaimer: No claimed ownership over Maryse, Robert, Michael. Just a theory on how Alec got his name. If anything is historically inaccurate, please let me know! **

**Alexander the Great**

"You're Greek! He's Greek! Aren't you supposed to know the history of your country?" Lightwood stares at Maryse, eyebrows raised so high they disappeared into his curly dark fringe. "What?" She asked defensively.

"Alexandros was _Macedonian,_ not Greek."

"He conquered Greece!"She exclaims.

"A lot of mundanes conquered Greece after the Peloponnesian War. In fact, it was not even a country until 1821."

"1830," she corrects smugly. Lightwood looks at her, completely aghast.

"Independence began in the beginning of the war. In 1821. Stop slandering my country or I will remind you that the French also have a terrible record for keeping their country their own."

"Slander, huh? Your English tutor's teaching you fancy words now? Soon you'll be able to talk without mangling your words with your atrocious accent."

He ignores her harsh words, flicking through Aelian's _Varia Historia. _"It is truly remarkable how sure you seem of mundane history after the Nephilim split. Perhaps your brother's eros-love is a one of familial?" he murmurs the insult with almost no inflection but when he glances at her, his dark eyes seem to sneer. She can't help but compare them to Valentine's understanding ones. ("They're jealous of your confidence and need something to humanize you with.")

"I have no brother," she says harshly.

"_By choice," he responds, voice still barely above a whisper. "He disgraced the purity of_ Shadowhunting by choosing to love someone the Angel deemed unworthy of the Mortal Cup. So the Inquisitor stripped him of his Marks? How does he suffer? By living safely with the woman he loved over everything. How do you suffer? You only suffer as much as you allow yourself to. Another who has an opinion on your life has not lived it. If one disgrace destroys reputations then my family would be dead a thousand times over." His serious gaze returns to the old text. Maryse scans the other books they pulled from the shelves.

"What does Alexandre mean?" she asks after a half hour of silence. She likes the way the name rolls off her tongue.

"Defender of men," he says absently without correcting her French pronunciation. She puts her chin in her hand.

"The Great Defender," she whispers to herself. Of course, she has no need for such a romantic notion even if they have white blond hair and almost black eyes.

The library doors are suddenly flung open as Michael Wayland enters. He stands in the center of the room, obviously scanning for someone. He stalks over to their table and steals Lightwood's book.

"You, m'friend, are _late_. Are the tales of dead mundanes and Trueblood more interesting than my company?"

"I am sorry, Michael." He stands up, gathering the notes and his bag. "Same time tomorrow?"

"Sure," Maryse says. Lightwood nods in farewell and then he and Wayland leave in a somewhat noisy fashion with lots of jostling. _Boys._ Maryse returns her focus to the English translation of _Varia Historia _to a passage about Hephaestion's death. It seemed foolish to her for Alexander to forsake his ambition for an emotional deterioration that ended in his untimely death and the collapse of his empire. It was funny how she could see the defender in the conquering King. _Mégas Alexandros. _It sounds like an angel's name. She puts the book in her bag and follows the parabatai out of the library.


	3. Chapter 3: Dead

**Disclaimer: Never have I ever claimed to own Mortal Instruments. That is illegal and getting arrested for infringing on copyright would look horrible on college applications. So would murder so remember that before grabbing your pitchforks to burn the witch who wrote this story.**

"Tell me a story," Alec requests with lazy grace. Magnus stares at his (virgin) lover and consequently loosing his place in the Book of White, admiring the changes that the Grecian sun wrought on the younger boy. The previously pale cream of Alec's skin is now darker and the swirling black tattoos seem more natural. He is beautiful and his eyes do not promise entry to Hell. They are too pale like the sky when the sun is out rather than twilight where night is inevitable. He has a faint New York accent, at least as much as any UES resident has; not a lower-class London one. He honestly isn't sure which he prefers but Will has been dead for over a century so it doesn't matter.

"Magnus?" Alec prompts.

"What story do you want?"

"An Ancient Greek one."

"How old do you think I am?" Magnus asks curiously. Alec leans forward, abandoning his relaxed position.

"I wouldn't know. Far older than me? Is this part of the story?"

"Which story?" Magnus stresses because there are thousands of Greek myths and Alec is being purposely vague.

"What's your favorite?" The Shadowhunter responds. Magnus almost sighs but Alec can play him in a way that no one has been able to do before (besides Camille) so he restrains himself. He tries to focus on Alec's question. Greek myths were tragic; immortal beings screwing with the human population for their own entertainment. He's familiar with only the really commercialized ones that were made into Disney films or had their own TV shows.

"Hercules," he says and Alec frowns. "What?"

"Nothing. I just didn't take you for the person to enjoy that kind of hero."

"I'm not really that interested in Greek mythology. I don't really understand why mortals keep falling in love with the gods if they know it's never gonna work out in their favor."

"Maybe," Alec murmurs faintly, "Maybe it's like a compulsion, like someone brought you back from Paradise's Gates and you can't help but feel obligated to love them. And hate them for tearing you away from Elysium." His eyes are a darker blue now, his pupils slightly dilated. It's a peculiar expression like he's reliving a memory. "And even with the promise of a tragic end, they fight until someone's spear is through their stomachs and they're being dragged across the battlefield. And then they die, all the mortal heroes, with the exception of Herakles, for a god or their families." Alec leaps off the bed and pulls on a black t-shirt. He turns back to look at Magnus with a disturbingly blank expression. He's rubbing his left forearm unconsciously.

"Is there something wrong with your arm?" Alec stiffens and grabs his blue Columbia sweatshirt from the back of the revolving desk chair. "Alec?" The Shadowhunter ignores him and starts walking to the door. Magnus flicks his fingers and magically seals it without a sound. Alec snarls when the door refuses to budge and whirls around, anger finally apparent on his normally controlled features.

"Let me out," he demands.

"Not until you tell me what that speech was about."

Alec laughs at him. The sound is bitter. "I'm not some mundie you can't enchant to forget about our world. I was _dead_ for fifteen minutes! You practiced necromancy on my corpse-why is beyond my capability to reason because I only met you once at a party but-"

"You look like him," Magnus blurted out.

"Like who?"

"Will. William Herondale."

"You tore me out of heaven because I reminded you of Jace's ancestor. That's so selfish."

"It wasn't just that! Your sister was crying and-"

"Don't try to guilt me into believing you had honest intentions. Isabelle would have gotten over it. It's a part of being a Shadowhunter that I only just understood recently."

"So, you've gotten over your brother's death?"

"That was a different situation. M-_he_ was only nine and died because I left him and Isabelle alone with a crazy half-demon. When I died, I allowed my jealously to control my logic so that when I had to save Jace's stupid ass, I was left with a glorified stick to poke the Greater Demon. I resigned myself to death as the only possible outcome and that's what Shadowhunting is, that's what Jace and Isabelle have been doing for years. Fighting like they were about to die."

"You make your race sound like a bunch of Slayers with death wishes."

"Slayers?"

"It's from a television show about a vampire hunter."

Alec shoots him an exasperated look. The rubbing of his arm continues.

"You and Jace are so similar. You both try to avoid emotional outbursts with sarcastic retorts, trying to hide the fact that you're just little boys who have been abused by your fathers. You do things that hurt other people because you _enjoy_ someone else hurting besides yourself."

"Why are you rubbing your arm?" Magnus deflects.

"Jace is terrible at keeping secrets from me," Alec says cryptically. Magnus looks at Alec's arm a second time. There's a blank area, a large patch of inflamed olive skin but he doesn't understand its significance. "Now open the door."

"One question," Magnus insists. "Did you just now figure it out? That I brought you back?"

"I suspected for a while. You're not really my type. And, yeah, I just remembered now." He snags his duffle bag and zips it shut after retrieving his stele. He sketches a rune on the door and it falls over with a bang. "Why else would I leave my family for some Downworlder?" Alec steps over the door and leaves without a backward glance. Magnus halfheartedly gestures at the door and it repairs itself. Forget vampires. Children of the Angel are the real prima donnas. Especially Lightwoods.


End file.
